Watson's Woes
by shedoc
Summary: What if the events in the story 'the Empty Room' were entirely fictitious? Even Watson has his limits......
1. Chapter 1

**Watson's Woes**

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

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The following account follows on directly from my last tale of Holmes at the Reichenbach Falls. I make it at the insistence of my friend, who has stated to me in no uncertain terms that he found the fictitious accounting of his capture of Colonel Moran to be a most odious lie. For myself, I would never have recounted this particular tale as it serves to highlight actions and events that I would rather forget. There was some delay in my publication of the falsehood, simply because I was not sure how far the truth of the matter had spread. However, my friend is so insistent that I have given in and will pen this tale for him to be included with his most secure papers in the old tin box. Make what you will of it Holmes, I can see no good in preserving this shameful truth - I suppose I must consider it my penance for my foolish pride.

My tale begins, oddly enough, in my front garden…

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	2. Chapter 2

**Watson's Woes**

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

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To say that my attackers caught me considerably off guard would be something of an understatement. However, my time abroad, as well as my time as Sherlock Holmes' companion stood me in good stead and I flatter myself that I put up rather more of a fight than they were expecting from an ex-army widower with a lame leg. Whatever method they had planned to employ to remove me from the small garden where I was working - and there were at least three separate men that I could count in that rather confusing yet oddly silent melee - they were forced to abandon it and use brute strength. There was a blow to my head that robbed me of all sense or feeling for a time I couldn't measure, and when I woke, I was lying in a cold stone room, dimly lit by a small and very dirty window.

They had removed my shoes and jacket, chained my ankles together and then shackled my left wrist to them as well, forcing me to lie with my shoulders pressed flat to the ground and my legs curled up, my left hip pointing up at the ceiling. My right hand was shackled to a bolt in the ground above my head. All this I ascertained without moving - for I sensed that the blow to my head would render any movement at all highly unpleasant to say the very least. It was evident to me from the pain of my old war wounds and general stiffness of my muscles that I had laid in this position for some time, insensible of my surroundings, a supposition that was confirmed when my captors next came to check upon me.

I would never profess to be a walking encyclopaedia of the criminal classes of London, but these two men were completely unknown to me. In the years since I had lost Holmes to Moriarity I had continued to strive to put away those that made a mockery of our laws, which of course made certain elements of society known to me. Scotland Yard had welcomed me with very cautious arms, as a Police Surgeon at first, and then in connection with the coroners office, and finally in my capacity as one of the few London doctors who worked with the slum and riverbank dwellers.

The man bending over me wore rough clothing and carried a candle stump; he conducted a brief examination of my head wound while I lay aware and yet indifferent on the floor. In the light of the candle, I could see several bruises on his face that I had inflicted in my struggles. It never occurred to me to deceive them as to my conscious state; they knew that my eyes were open and that I at the very least heard what they said. As my great friend had often said before his death, deceit was not my strongest suit - but the man who examined me seemed unsurprised that I did not respond to his cursory glance over. I had been unable to summon the energy to so much as grunt in response to their words or rough touches, saving myself for the effort at escape that I must eventually make.

"How is he?" the voice of the second man was not unexpected, as I had been able to discern two disparate sets of footsteps approaching my prison. Though I was not in complete control of my faculties, my ability to infer information from my surroundings - limited though it was compared to another of my acquaintance - had survived mostly intact.

"I think we hit him too hard," the first replied, with no trace of remorse, "Holmes won't be happy about this."

"Holmes won't be able to move him too fast, which will be to our benefit should he arrive unexpectedly," was the callous observation, "Let's go."

I was left to the dubious illumination of my cell and my whirling thoughts. It appeared that I had been taken from my dear late wife's garden to act as a hostage to Mycroft Holmes, though what value my dear friend's brother placed on me would be negligible at the most. The problem with that supposition was that Mycroft Holmes knew very little of me, and my friend Sherlock Holmes – the only other possible Holmes I could think of – had died three years previously, battling against his archenemy Professor Moriarty. He could no more ransom me to these men, than my departed wife could appear and soothe my brow. I was truly alone, and with that thought in mind, I turned my right wrist carefully to reach the shackle that was holding my hand fast to the iron ring.

It was difficult and tedious work to force my cramping fingers to unfasten the simple shackle, but I persevered, all the while ruminating over the last three painful years.

I had returned from the Falls greatly shaken in my nerves, but travelled straight from the station to Mycroft Holmes club, knowing I would find him there. It had not seemed right to send the surviving brother such ghastly news by telegram, and Mycroft received me with hooded eyes and a face that may well have been carved from granite. It took all my remaining courage to tell him of my folly, how I had abandoned his brother for a wild goose chase, and he heard me out in silence. When the sorry tale was done, he had informed me that he would see to Holmes' rooms in Baker Street and I was shown to the door. In all truth, I could not blame the man for his cold treatment. I counted myself lucky that he had not berated or abused me for my negligent stupidity.

Mary welcomed me home with open arms and wept with me as I relived the tale one more time. Holmes had not been a close friend of hers, but he had always been pleasant to my wife on the rare occasions they met and she was well aware of our great friendship. She had never berated me for leaving our happy home to travel the more dangerous footpaths of crime with Holmes and I could never express to her my gratitude for her support and acceptance of our unorthodox partnership.

Her death, only three months after my return from the Falls unmanned me, and for some weeks, I kept entirely to the house, indeed I scarcely left our room.

She died on her birthday, at the theatre. We had seen a rather fine concert, were on our way to a late supper when a woman in the crowd created considerable alarm with her cries, and rather unsteady behaviour. Mary spotted Inspector Lestrade and his wife on the other side of the street and while I advanced to see if I could aid the hysterical woman and her embarrassed escort, Mary caught my eye and smiled.

To the end of my days, I will remember the last silent conversation we had across a crowd of concert patrons. The quick sympathy that we had established during the affair of the Agra treasure was a strong cornerstone of our marriage, and entire conversations could be held in a single glance exchanged between us.

'_I have seen some friends; I will wait with them for you.'_

'_I shall not be long, I love you.'_

She smiled at me gravely, well aware that as a doctor it was as much my duty as my calling to give the woman whatever aid I could. I quickly established that the hysterics had been caused by seeing a mouse - or what she thought was a mouse - in the gutter. A nearby cab was commissioned to take the woman and her escort home and I turned to see Mary standing on the edge of the street as the Lestrade's escorted her back to my side. Mrs Lestrade had met my wife in the course of their charity work, and they were good friends. I was pleased that she had agreeable company while I deserted her for my duty and smiled as she stepped out into the street.

Moments later, there was a shout and a great deal of noise as a cab appeared from nowhere and ran her down where she stood. The inspector had managed to throw himself and his wife out of danger, but no one had been near to help my Mary. I was at her side in a flash, but there was nothing to be done and she took her last breath in my arms, my tears staining her face.

The cabby had been drunk, and had escaped the accident uninjured, though he was unable to escape the long arm of the law. I cannot to this day tell you what his fate was, Lestrade had assured me that the 'blighter would get what was coming to him' and in the grief stricken days that followed I had retreated from life as far as it was possible, clinging to that promise for whatever empty solace it could give me.

The shackle around my wrist loosened finally and I took a moment to rest, my mind playing over the death of my friend and wife slowly. I was unsure what made my assailants entertain the notion that Sherlock Holmes was alive, but I knew without a doubt that even if he had been forced to deceive me as to his fate at the Falls he would not have left me to grieve alone after Mary's death. I have stated elsewhere that Holmes' first allegiance was to logic and that emotion was alien to him, however I did not believe my friend would have left me to suffer under a double burden of grief in such a manner.

I know that for a short time after Mary's death several friends sat with me lest I do myself some harm, however that watch was soon dispensed with. I rallied to resume my work to my patients, and found that my company was in much demand of an evening as kindly friends attempted to alleviate my newfound solitude. I threw myself into my practice and if at night I brooded over my past, no one was harmed.

It was whilst I was resting from my small labours that my captors returned and I had the presence of mind to lie completely still. Fortunately, they were more interested in their new captive: Inspector Lestrade, who was bound thoroughly with what seemed to be an entire coil of rope and a rather filthy gag.

"We'll leave yer here, Inspector, since yer were so eager to find old Watson. Don't let his vacant stare bother yer none, I'm afraid we had to hit him rather hard and he's not been himself since," the callous statement made Lestrade swear behind the gag and struggle ineffectually with his bonds. As much as I longed to reassure my friend that I was not in such dire straits as my captors thought I could not take the risk.

My head had cleared somewhat during the time I was freeing my right wrist from its shackle and I felt that a little cautious movement was in order once things had again quieted. Lestrade seemed to have given up his struggles, and I was glad of that, as I was certain I would need his support to move any great distance and he would need his strength. With no Sherlock Holmes to affect a daring rescue, and his brother 'the armchair detective' couched as our unlikely saviour, it was up to us to save ourselves, and the sooner the better.

The little window of our cell was completely dark now, and I rolled very cautiously onto my stomach, resting my forehead on the dirty floor and reaching my right arm back to my left wrist. My body protested such gymnastics fiercely and I'm afraid I lost some time trying to quell its rebellions. My wrist came free however and I managed to roll back onto my side again, curling my legs once more and reaching my ankle shackles easily. The removal of my shoes made this a lot easier for me, and it amused me a little to know that my captors had done me a favour in this matter. Once free, I crawled unsteadily to Lestrade's side and started fishing in his boot for the knife I know he conceals there routinely.

He grunted a few times, but I am sorry to say that it took me several minutes to realise he wanted me to remove the gag. I blame the lingering concussion.

"Watson! Are you alright?" his voice was soft, yet carried considerable force, "Holmes is fair beside himself with worry. He and the lads will be coming in soon to get us."

The second part of his speech made no sense to me, and I stopped trying to saw through the bonds at his feet to check his head over carefully.

"Did they hit you very hard, Inspector?" I asked gently, "Are you dizzy or nauseous?"

"What? I'm fine, never blacked out," Lestrade averred and I returned to his bonds reluctantly. In the dark with no medical supplies, there was little I could do if he was also suffering from delusions brought about by a concussion.

"Did you hear me?" he asked as his legs were freed.

"You have a small force ready to come inside soon," I summed up the part of his speech that was relevant, hoping it was true and moving on to the bonds about his arms and chest, "As to my health, I have lost track of the time and date, but a spot of rest will soon put me right."

The moment he was free, Lestrade was on his feet, retrieving his knife and heading for the door of our prison. He knew better than to fuss over a head injury he couldn't even see, and immediately started work on the door. After several minutes, it became apparent that he was not going to be able to force it open and his language was frankly appalling as he returned to where I was leaning against the wall.

"Can you tell me what this is about? Why have they chosen me for their plans?" I asked quietly, and felt my unwilling companion startle at my words.

"They believe that if they hold you to ransom, Sherlock Holmes will return to London to rescue you," Lestrade's voice was unwontedly gentle and I sighed.

"Holmes is dead though, there will be no ransom," I completed the dilemma, "Good thing you found me before they gave up on their scheme and disposed of the evidence."

"Watson, I talked to Mr Holmes less than an hour ago," Lestrade said softly, "These three are an affiliate of Professor Moriarty's old gang, and they're somehow tied in with that Colonel Moran chap – you remember him. Apparently Mr Holmes has been travelling these last three years incognito to take down the last of the Moriarty's criminal network."

The words made little sense to me, but before I could dispute them, there was noise in the corridor and Lestrade left my side to find and conceal himself by the door. I knew full well that I was in no fit state to fight our captors, and would only get in the Inspectors way. Although it grated on my instincts, I waited where I was for the outcome of the battle.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Watson's Woes**

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

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My next clear memory is of the hospital. With a significant concussion, it is not unusual for the patient to lose all track of time and place, and this proved to be the case for me. I was lucky enough to retain my memory of whom I was and how I had come to be in the hospital - some victims of concussion never had this surety, and never regained it once the original insult to the brain faded.

A nurse had apparently been assigned to my specific care, as within moments of opening my eyes she was bustling quietly around me, asking questions and offering water. The nausea had abated since my removal from my prison, and cautious movement showed that my head had cleared considerably. I accepted her offer of dry toast and asked a few questions of my own.

I had been missing for a week before Lestrade found me, or more accurately had been captured, and I had been in hospital for a fortnight, in varying states of awareness. I confessed I could not remember this, but she didn't seem overly concerned and not long after Stamford appeared and checked me over, pronouncing me a good deal better.

"Which is a considerable relief to me, as I can send Holmes the news and he can stop sending me telegrams at all hours of the day and night," Stamford settled into the chair beside my bed, "He can come and see you for himself; now that the danger is past you can have a few visitors."

"Holmes is dead," I reminded my friend, unsure why those around me would concoct such a cruel deception, "He died at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland."

"Watson old chap," Stamford said gently, "He didn't die. It was a ruse, to make the criminals he was trying to catch believe they were free from the threat of his investigations."

"Holmes is dead," there was a tone of finality to my voice and I glared at my colleague with some heat, "I do not know why you continue to press Lestrade's story, but I know that Holmes would not have left me in the dark in such a manner."

Stamford grimaced and ran a hand over lips, looking at me with an expression that was quite frankly worried. I could not find the words to explain to him that if Holmes had deceived me in such manner then something else was dead in his place - I could not see myself remaining friends with a man that had deceived me so callously. Deception may not have been my best skill, but for Holmes' sake, I would have learnt to do anything.

"Well, let us not quibble about it now," my doctor had evidently decided to humour his patient, "See if you can manage to eat a little more, and rest for now. I will be back to see you again in a few hours. If you continue to improve I'll arrange for an ambulance to take you home; I know you would rather be there."

"Thank you," I replied and watched him leave. My nurse supplied me with broth, and then assisted me with the mechanics of consuming it when my strength deserted me after only a few spoonfuls. It was not very tasty, nor was it overly warm, and I made a mental note to get my next visitor to contact my housekeeper and have her send over a meal once a day until I could leave.

I think I may have dozed for a while, because when my door next opened the tray with the broth was gone and Lestrade was entering the room, a worried expression upon his face. He smiled when he realised I was awake and I smiled in reply, relieved to see that there were no lingering marks from our misadventure.

"Stamford sent word that you had regained your senses and could have a visitor," Lestrade sat in the chair my doctor had used a few hours ago, "I thought I'd come and see you for myself. The missus was in a fair old state over you and has been asking me every night what the word on you was."

"Please send her my warm regards," I smiled, "And should she care to send me something more substantial than cold watery broth I will bless her with my every waking breath."

"I'll contact your housekeeper and Mrs Hudson on my way home," Lestrade shuddered. He liked a good meal as much as the next man and the thought of watery broth were evidently unsettling to him.

"Don't bother Mrs Hudson," I vetoed the second suggestion, "My former landlady has better things to do than bother with an old tenant I am sure."

Mrs Hudson had come to Mary's funeral, a gesture that had touched me quite unexpectedly. The thought of disturbing her now though was not to be borne, as I had had little contact with her since Mary's death.

"Mr Holmes left instructions with just about everyone that he could find that your every comfort was to be seen to," Lestrade shook his head, "And Mrs Hudson would be happy to send you a little something."

"Holmes is dead," I reminded the Inspector, "And I wouldn't have Mrs Hudson troubled on my account at all."

"Doctor," Lestrade objected, "I assure you, Mr Holmes is very much alive. I would not lie to you about this, John."

The use of my Christian name was telling – Lestrade only resorted to that in moments of extremis. I closed my eyes wearily, and turned my head away, not wanting to go on with the charade. That my friend was persisting in maintaining the fiction was like a knife twisting in my chest and I wanted to shout at him, manners and propriety be damned. I ignored him instead and after a few minutes trying to regain my attention he left.

There was no doubt that I was in considerable difficulty, as I now had to make a choice. Did I allow myself to believe that Holmes was alive and had decided to let me believe the cruellest of lies in order to further his investigation - thus killing our friendship - or did I persist with my insistence that Holmes was dead, preserving the goodwill and warm humour that we had once shared? The latter would doubtless end with my committal to an insane asylum at the instigation of well meaning friends, but the former would mean facing the painful realisation that my friendship with Holmes had been based upon a very uneven regard. That I thought highly of the man was not something I could deny, that he thought highly of me was obviously untrue.

Before I could come to any final decision, my deception became reality and I fell asleep, my body seeking to regain the energy it had expended in healing my wounds.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Watson's Woes**

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

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I was home only two days later and very relieved to be surrounded by familiar sights. I had persuaded Stamford that I didn't need a nurse, as my housekeeper was more than able to see to his instructions that I ate light meals and rested. Returning to a house that had held so many happy memories of my life with dearest Mary was the best medicine I could have and I regained my strength quickly. Less than a week after I left the hospital I was able to resume light duties among my patients, their ills distracting me from mine. Mrs Lestrade was kind enough to stop by and instruct my housekeeper in several very tasty light meals - all that I could abide for some time as too heavy or rich food unsettled my stomach - and there was a package of Mrs Hudson's' excellent baking sent over from Baker Street as well.

One evening I returned home only to have Mrs Cooper pounce upon me the moment I stepped in the door. I deduced that she had been waiting for me in order to speak to me the instant I returned home, a deduction that was borne out by her first words to me.

"Sir, I was hoping to catch you," she fairly whispered, tugging on my arm with both hands. I had not even had a chance to remove my coat, though my hat was in my hand already. At first, I was concerned that she wanted to give notice - my habits were terribly erratic, as I would be out all hours ministering to my various patients and this threw off her schedule of carefully contrived meals and housework - then I realised that I had a visitor in the front room.

The familiar scent of Holmes's pipe drifted on the air and I sighed in resignation. So far, my former friend had avoided all contact with me - though I later discovered he had been a frequent late night visitor at the hospital - but it seemed that my period of grace was over.

"Mr Holmes is in the front parlour - or was. I can smell the smoke of his pipe," I smiled at her anxious face. Mrs Cooper had been warned of my insistence that Holmes had perished at the Falls, and had doubtless been told to monitor my behaviour closely, in case I suddenly decided that others from my past had returned to life, or died when the opposite was the case.

"Yes sir, him and another gentleman," she sighed, "I told him you were out, but he just installed himself in the parlour to wait."

I considered the hat I had in my hand. For a brief moment, taking dinner at my club and possibly a room for the night as well seemed a very attractive prospect. I shook my head at my cowardice and handed Mrs Cooper my hat, stripping off my gloves and coat as well.

"Could I trouble you for a pot of tea, Mrs Cooper? And I'm afraid dinner will need to be delayed. I don't imagine that Mr Holmes and his guest will remain for the meal."

"Yes Doctor," Mrs Cooper sighed, and went to put my coat away, muttering about 'if the missus had been here she'd have given him what-for' under her breath. The comment, not meant to be heard by me at all, made me smile. Mary was very protective of me, in a way that I had not fully appreciated until it was too late.

Holmes was standing by the fireplace, smoking furiously as though engaged in some problematic thinking process, and to my surprise, his brother was seated upon the divan, reading a discarded copy of the Lancet. Both men looked exactly as I had remembered them, the disparity in weight no less startling now than it had been the first time I met the eldest of the Holmes brothers. Mycroft had put the magazine to one side upon my entrance, and my friend had paused in front of the fire. For a long moment, I was subjected to an analytical gaze that took in the tiniest of details from head to toe, something that I had not felt in three years.

"Good evening," I said in as polite a tone as I could manage and moved fully into the room. For a moment, I wondered if Holmes had come to see me in connection to some case, from the way he was drawing so furiously on the pipe clenched between his teeth. I hoped not, as I no longer had the heart for his work. I was a police surgeon on a part time basis - that allowed me to indulge my penchant for mysteries.

"Watson," Holmes' keen gaze swept me from head to toe again as I crossed to my normal chair and sat, "You are recovered?"

There was a slight hesitancy to the question, as if he was unsure of the answer he would get. The great detective was uncomfortable with anything that approached sentiment, though it could be argued the question was more than logical given our estrangement.

"I am," I nodded politely, hoping to ease through the banalities and to get to the heart of this visit as quickly as possible. I didn't want to argue with my former friend, but nor could I see any way he could phrase his explanation of his actions, and lack of trust in me, that would lead to my excusing his decisions.

"I'm glad to hear it," there was a lessening of the tension in his thin frame, "Watson, I've come to apologise."

"No apology is necessary," I replied quietly, "I am sure that you acted as you had to. I assume you telegraphed Mycroft before I went to see him about your rooms and effects?"

"He did," Mycroft broke his silence, "Along with instructions to keep our communication a secret."

"Deception is not my strong suit," I could no more stop the bitter words than I could stop breathing; "You have said that to me on more than one occasion; I understand."

The brothers exchanged a glance with each other, one that I was surprisingly able to read. Holmes had expected that I would resist their attempt at explanation and Mycroft had doubted his conclusion, based no doubt upon the slim knowledge he had of me. Death changes a man, and though it was not my death I had suffered, I was no longer the same person that Holmes had deceived three years ago. Ironically, it was Holmes own death that had sparked the process of that change.

"I don't think you do old chap," Holmes said with unwonted gentleness, "I was loathe to deceive you in such a manner, but all indications were that you were closely watched, and any contact or change in your behaviour risked alerting my quarry that he was being hunted."

"Very well, you have explained why you acted as you did. Words cannot change the past, and I understand that I was a stalking horse for you. I assume that you have returned to London full time?" I saw no point in drawing the awkward interview out any further, but Holmes heaved a sigh. This was another action I was familiar with. My obtuseness or failure to follow his thought processes was beginning to wear on his patience. Normally this would have made me concerned; now I was indifferent. Or at least I was until Holmes Senior saw fit to intervene.

"Dr Watson, I was not in London when your wife…" whatever Mycroft was about to say was cut off by my own actions. I leapt from my chair and fairly ran to the door. As irrational as my behaviour was, I could not stand to hear the precise process that led to the continuance of Holmes' deception and the inevitable death of our friendship. No logically cold hearted excuse could be borne at this time, though perhaps once I had the time to distance myself from the situation I would be able to entertain their reasoning.

"Good evening gentlemen. We have nothing more to say to each other," my tone was cold and forceful, "I have accepted your reasons for the deception, and have no wish to discuss it further. Nothing can be gained from drawing this out."

Mycroft looked as if he would have said more, but Holmes stayed him with a gesture. The brothers allowed me to collect their hats and coats and escort them to the front door. It took me several moments to regain my composure enough to return to the parlour and ring for tea.

I did not sleep well that night. Nor the next.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Watson's Woes**

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

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Stamford provided me with an engrossing distraction not three days after Holmes brief visit. The man who had introduced me to the person who was to become my closest friend once again led me to someone who would have a significant impact on my life. He had a young doctor who wished to work in general practice, just as I did. The man had excellent academic credentials and his research work was impeccable. His bedside manner was non-existent, and this was a major obstacle in his path. Stamford had placed him with several other doctors, and they had yet to tolerate him for an entire term.

Even the hospital was beginning to lose all patience with him, and Stamford intimated to me that I was the young mans last hope of ever going into active practice. Stamford was well aware that between my paying practice, my poor practice and my duties as a police surgeon I had more than enough work to be going on with, and I agreed to take the young man on, with the understanding that he would live under my roof and spend the entirety of his waking time at my side. Stamford was a little unsure about that particular rider, but I insisted that I could not accept an assistant that was not willing to work as hard as I did.

My colleague faithfully relayed my words back to the young upstart, a Colin Poole by name, and he agreed to my terms with the request that he would be allowed Sunday afternoon off to visit his mother and sisters. I could see no difficulty with that, and he was subsequently installed in my guestroom.

The redoubtable Mrs Cooper was not one to suffer fools gladly, and she and young Dr Poole were soon at loggerheads over everything from the temperature of his shaving water to the size of the portions served at every meal. I had warned my long-suffering housekeeper of the young mans poor personal skills prior to his arrival and had winced for him when her eyes lit up. There was nothing she liked better than a challenge, be it the intricacy of a new recipe or the task of training a new housemaid. As her tongue was far sharper than his and she had the advantage of him in the form of tears and cold dinners I was not too worried about her at all. By the end of the week, Poole had learned to speak politely and treat Mrs Cooper with the respect due to her. I had not needed to intervene once, though my housekeeper was more than glad to confide to me the details of her daily battles with my young colleague.

Lestrade was informed that I would be bringing Poole to crime scenes whenever I was called upon in my professional capacity. When my friend enquired if I wished to be spared from nighttime calls, I assured him that no such consideration was required and we were called out nine days into Poole's attendance at my surgery.

The scene was in a poorer part of town, and one that I was acquainted with, hence Lestrade calling for me and not a doctor from a closer practice. The trouble was not with the corpse - only one glimpse was required to ascertain that the cloth wrapped bundle was dead - but with the man that held it. He was drunk and half off his head with grief, calling alternately for the dead child he cradled in his arm and his wife, who was nowhere to be found. There was a cross nailed to the wall above the soot-choked fireplace, the room's single ornament and focal point.

"She's killed him! Killed him dead I tells you!" he was howling at the constables as we arrived, holding them at bay with a large knife, which I took to be one of his tools of trade. The constable closest to the man exhorted him to come along sensibly like a good man and was forced to duck a blow from the knife for his troubles.

"Slaughterhouse worker, dead child, missing wife. We think the child was strangled; it looks as if there's rope around its neck. Man insists that a doctor should see to the child, but anyone with a nose can smell its dead. He's called Jack Sparrow, and he's been on a bender with his mates the last week. Came home to a missing wife and dead kiddie," Lestrade muttered to me, not even glancing around when I put my hand on his shoulder. He was blocking the only door, as a last barricade between the distraught drunkard and the world.

"Dr Poole, stand by the wall, next to the door and don't move until I call for you," I called over my shoulder, "And if you value your life, stay quiet."

One wrong word from my young colleague and I'd be stitching knife wounds shut on him all night. He had the talent for putting both feet firmly in it and then jumping up and down for good measure. I was curious what his home life was like, and if his sisters were just as poorly mannered.

"Mr Sparrow," I called, walking away from the door and the other constables as well, forcing him to split his attention even further. The smell in that bleak little room was putrid, a disgusting combination of cheap alcohol, poor personal hygiene and fetid decay that left an unpleasant after taste on the back of the throat of all who breathed it in. There was little to no furniture and what there were of the families personal belongings were filthy and battered.

"I am Dr Watson; I believe you requested my presence?"

The man of course had not, at least not specifically, but sometimes men in this state responded well to courteous and deferential treatment. Sparrow wavered in place, squinting at me as his drink and grief addled brain attempted to follow what I was saying.

"I'm a doctor, I'm here to look after your child," I simplified my comment and comprehension dawned. Sparrow looked down with a sob and nodded.

"Little Jacky's poorly," the big man mumbled, "But I can't pay yer much."

"That's quite alright Mr Sparrow, the important thing is little Jacky now," I put my bag down on the only table in the room and took out the sheet that I carried to house calls in the poorer parts of my practice. The sheet gave me a clean surface to work upon and was large enough to act as a shroud for the child once we got him away from his father.

"Yer'll still look?" there was hope in his voice, and my heart twisted for him. He loved the child in his own way, though I'd warrant he didn't have much to do with the boy. At the age of three - an estimate based on the size of the body - he would have been more useful in a factory than a slaughterhouse. If the mother worked, the boy most likely worked with her.

"I will," I promised, "We can talk about payment after, and I'll keep it fair."

The drunkard wavered over towards me and I schooled my face not to flinch as I accepted the putrid boy from his father's anxious arms. With Sparrow firmly focussed on my every move the constables began to draw closer, ready to disarm the man as soon as they were in range. I laid the little body down gently, glad that I hadn't removed my gloves. I had learned not take my gloves off before I knew what sort of call I was facing, for just such occasions as these. There were times when it was necessary that the gloves could be thrown away before I even returned home, while hand-washing facilities were not always available.

The corpse, for that was what little Jacky had been reduced to, had a thin rope knotted tightly around its neck. One hand was tangled in the rope, showing that the boy had fought for his life, even as his eyes bulged and tongue swelled. That organ protruded from his mouth grotesquely, adding a horrible touch to the tragic little face. With the father hovering anxiously, I plied my stethoscope carefully, listening to several spots on the malnourished chest.

"I'm sorry Mr Sparrow," I straightened carefully, stethoscope still dangling from my neck; "Little Jacky is beyond all help now. He's resting with God."

Sparrow howled in anguish, and as I carefully wrapped the sheet about the little corpse all too clearly did I hear Poole mutter.

"Better with God than here."

In his drunken misery, Sparrow blamed me for the comment. His face twisted with rage and even as the Constables leapt forward, he slashed out with the knife, aiming the blow at my eyes. I blocked it with my arm, thankfully my left arm, as it was on that side the man stood, and the knife bit sharply through my sleeve before clattering to the ground. My assailant disappeared under a mound of constables as I staggered back out of the way. With shaking hands, I stripped my gloves off, and then clapped my bare right hand over the wound. Lestrade darted forward, grabbed my medical bag and my elbow and hustled me out of there as the constables subdued Jack Sparrow and his knife.

Poole followed us anxiously, and in the weak light of a gas lamp, we paused long enough for him to fit an emergency dressing to the wound. Lestrade stood with a bracing arm around me, muttering imprecations under his breath and generally threatening all sorts of bodily harm to my young protégé. I for one was pleased that I had not wounded my 'good' arm, as my left shoulder was still stiff despite the weeks that had passed since my captivity.

"I'll be in to check on you in the morning, John," Lestrade promised and bundled me into a cab, barking for the cabbie to make all speed for St Thomas Hospital, an order I countermanded quickly. My surgery at home was well equipped to deal with the emergency, and my colleague was certainly capable of treating the wound that he had inflicted with his ill-considered words.

I did not envy him the tongue-lashing he would receive from Lestrade upon the promised visit. Nor the one that Stamford would give him when he discovered his protégé's folly - which would have to be reported in the weekly assessment. With all the lectures he was about to receive, including one from Mrs Cooper when she discovered the state of my clothes, not to mention the task of sewing together the man his words had injured, I did not envy Colin Poole one iota.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Watson's Woes**

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

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My younger colleague was very grateful to escape to his Sunday afternoon at home, and I used the time he was away to make my accustomed Sunday afternoon visit, and the latter part of the day to prop my feet on the fender and catch up on my reading. The gash had required eight stitches to hold it closed, and my left arm was confined to a sling for a few more days, until the wound had knitted enough to withstand light usage of the limb. I usually dined alone on Sunday evenings and was joined by nine by Dr Poole, who would sit with me for a quiet drink before retiring. We would use the time to discuss the week in general, review diagnosis of patients and their treatment. I would also use the time to rehearse with him the expected patter a doctor would use with his patients and their worried family. It had only taken me a week to determine that Poole's bedside manner would only improve through memorisation, as he seemed to have little empathy for those he treated. His devotion to the field of medicine was genuine; however, his impatience and dislike of his fellow humans presented an interesting dichotomy.

That evening he returned highly agitated, as I could tell by the fumbling to get his key in the lock and the bang of the door as he thrust it open. Several pairs of lighter footsteps preceded his into the front hall and I cast my copy of the Lancet aside to go and see what the matter was.

There were three people in my front hall, two well-dressed ladies and my young colleague. The resemblance to young Poole was unmistakeable, the two women accompanying him were obviously his mother and his oldest sister, both suitably attired for the cool evening.

"We were followed!" Poole blurted before I could even open my mouth in greeting or inquiry, "Do you think that Sparrow got away from the police after all?"

"He did not," I stated the fact simply. Jack Sparrow was under lock and key this night for drunk and disorderly, and his wife was being sought in the case of her child's murder. Sparrow would be released by the end of the week, and had no way to track either myself or my colleague down even if he could perform the unlikely feat of recalling our faces or my name, "What on earth makes you think you were followed?"

"Someone was trying to wave our coach down," there was a distinct quaver in Miss Poole's voice and a closer look showed both mother and daughter to be upset and pale.

"Come into the parlour, ladies. Mrs Cooper, would you oblige us with some tea?" my housekeeper had been drawn by the noise, and had no doubt come to remonstrate with Poole over it. Since my injury, my housekeeper had insisted that my home be as quiet and restful as possible to aid in my recovery; an unneeded but kindly meant sentiment. She nodded and returned back the way she had come, while I ushered the women into the parlour and saw them relieved of their outer vestments and seated.

"Forgive the mess," I smiled, stacking the scattered journals I had been reading to one side, "I am afraid I am no longer in the habit of keeping the parlour spotless, despite Mrs Cooper's best lectures."

I turned the gas up and stirred up the fire, bustling about a little, creating a comfortable sense of normalcy for them. Mrs Cooper arrived with the tea and poured for them, and between the two of us, we settled their nerves quite well.

"Goodness!" Mrs Poole exclaimed when she had taken her first sip of tea, "I feel quite relieved. If our Colin can learn half of your skill, Dr Watson, then he will be a marvellous doctor indeed."

"You are too kind, Mrs Poole," I smiled, and settled into my armchair with my own cup, "Dr Poole, come and join us."

He was still pacing about and peering out the window, ignoring his mother and sister, foisting their care on a man who was to them at least a stranger. That neither of them seemed surprised at this, coupled with his mothers forthright comment gave me an important glimpse into my charges upbringing. At my words he dropped the corner of the curtain and paced nervously back to our grouping of chairs, sitting only when I fixed him with a pointed glare and taking the teacup his sister handed him with neither a word nor look of thanks.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, ladies?" I smiled, deciding I might as well be as forthright as Mrs Poole. After a fortnight in my home, it was hard to believe that the Poole family had a sudden urge to meet their child's mentor and assess me for suitability.

"We came to ensure that you were recovering well," Miss Poole spoke up, "Colin told us about that horrid man attacking you. And now he's worried that we were followed!"

"I am recovering perfectly well thank you," I smiled politely, "And I know for a fact that Mr Sparrow is still incarcerated at this time. He would not have been following you at all."

"Then who waved at our carriage? It is the family carriage, and not a common one," Miss Poole fretted and I took a moment to ponder over her unusual choice of words. It became clear that she meant not one for hire, and I smiled at her easily.

"How well lit is the street your house is situated on?" I asked, and Mrs Poole bristled. This was obviously a topic she spoke often on.

"Not well at all! It's positively disgraceful!"

"That explains it then," I interrupted skilfully. Normally I would never dream of doing so to a guest, but this odd collection of family would not notice anything untoward about it, "In the dim lighting a man has mistaken your carriage to be for hire and tried to flag it down."

"He did run towards it as we pulled away," Poole broke his silence and I smiled as if the matter was quite settled.

"There you have it. The poor lighting, and perhaps poor eyesight of your man led to the confusion," the simple statement had all three of them relaxing back into their chairs and sipping their tea. I felt a little like a father explaining an odd noise to an unnerved child, but squashed that feeling quickly. My child was buried with its mother, a happy discovery we'd made only the day before her birthday. I had not confided this little fact to any of my colleagues or friends, though I suspect that Lestrade had an idea of it. He was the one who found me after I had become too well acquainted with the contents of my liquor cabinet. I cannot recall quite what I confided in my cups, though he left me a note vowing that we would not speak of it again, something that I had evidently required of him.

"Colin told us what happened on Friday night," Miss Poole volunteered after a moment, no doubt getting to the heart of the matter, "Mother and I were dreadfully shocked to hear of it."

"Then perhaps your brother shouldn't have mentioned it," I replied, slanting a glance at him. He glared back, no doubt resenting being treated thusly in front of his family.

"I was so worried to hear that he was going into such a dangerous situation," Mrs Poole spoke up, "What if that terrible oaf had hurt him?"

I have to admit that my blood boiled at that. Poole had provoked a man rotten with drink and mad with grief at a time when we could all least afford to have him lashing out. I had borne the brunt of that attack, and yet had not repudiated my colleague, though Stamford was pressing me most strongly to do so. The ladies and I use that term in its loosest sense, showed no sympathy for the bereaved man, and no true concern for me beyond the preliminary social niceties. They had called upon a man they had no prior acquaintance with late at night with no forewarning or other social niceties, and then had proceeded to hint that he was endangering an inexperienced member of his own profession, a profession I had many years of experience in.

"He would not have hurt anyone if your son had held his tongue," I pointed out, "It was not until he intimated that the child was better dead than living with his parent that Mr Sparrow attacked. In fact, ladies, I will hear no more on the subject. I do not wish to be rude, but this is a matter between Mr Poole and myself. Your young man has come to me for training; training that the hospital has made very clear he requires if he is ever to go into active practice. Should I be forced to resign myself from the position of mentor he would never attain his goal. It was intimated to me that I am his last chance. I would so hate to see that chance wasted by outside interference."

I made my tone as stern as I could and still remain polite. After all, they were concerned for Poole in their own way, and this was their method of showing it. My colleague's attitude to those he encountered in the course of his duties was now explained, and in an odd way, I was more determined than ever to overcome this familial influence. Colin Poole had an excellent mind, and should not be held back by his family's strange notions of correct social behaviour.

The visit was cut short then, with the ladies returning to their carriage. To put Poole's mind at rest we watched carefully to see if anyone took undue interest in the cab, but there was no one about at that late hour to do so.

I locked my front door and bid Poole goodnight with as few words as possible, instructing him to turn the gaslights off in the parlour and ensure the fireguard was properly in place. My arm was beginning to ache, as it did at the end of a long day and I took the stairs wearily to my bed.

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	7. Chapter 7

**Watson's Woes**

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

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The next step on Poole's road to rehabilitation came from my poorer practice. It was not often that those that dwelled in the poorer areas of London sent for a doctor, and you could always guarantee that the patient would be in very dire straits indeed, when the call was finally made. The poor often couldn't afford the luxury of a doctor, and were more used to 'shifting for themselves'. As I believed that your status should not interfere with your right to medical attention I allowed my patients to repay any medical bills in whatever manner they could afford. Sometimes this meant that the payment of my 'bill' came in several small instalments, and sometimes payment was made through service - a member of the family would re-sole my shoes, alter a suit, or sweep my chimney's. I was careful to ensure that I didn't make the payment a burden to the family and did my best to ensure that their pride was left intact. I flatter myself that my reputation among the poor was for fairness and dignity, something that some of those working for charity failed to achieve. I did not lecture or condescend, and I tried not to refer to the difference in status between my patients and myself. I certainly didn't use them as fodder for dinner table stories with my peers and acquaintances, as some of my colleagues were known to.

We were returning from our afternoon rounds and looking forward to a hearty dinner when I heard my name being whispered from behind Mary's favourite rose bush. As this was not a common occurrence, I grabbed Poole's arm in surprise, cutting off his monologue on the treatment of gout in elderly male patients.

"Who is there?" I asked sharply. The last time I had been taken by surprise in this garden I had been hospitalised, something I wanted to avoid at all costs.

"It's Billy Jones, Doc," the hoarse voice carried clearly now, "Can yer let me in?"

"Of course Billy," I nodded to Poole to open the door and young Billy scuttled inside. His father worked as a builder, and Billy was one of twelve children. The family was not in quite the same financial straits as some of my patients, but neither were they rich. I shut the front door behind us and Billy straightened up, smiling nervously at my colleague.

"I can wait while yer see to this chap, Doc," he suggested and I smiled at him. He had good manners when he wanted to, did Billy, not that his language was up to elegant speech. He had picked up far too much slang to sustain that.

"This is Dr Poole, Billy. He's my new offsider for the next few months, and will be coming with me if you're calling me out. You can trust him," I nodded at my colleague to keep his hat and coat on and Billy sighed.

"Me dad has caught this man down near our mews. He's got a woman with him, and whoever they are, they don't go together. She's quality and he's rough, and on top of that, I think she's sick. We can't call a peeler 'cos we've got… well nem'mind that… we jest can't, but dad thought you could come and look her over… maybe get her back to where she belongs?" Billy looked so hopeful that I nodded straight away and gestured for him to go out the back through the kitchen. We warned Mrs Cooper that we may be some time, and I snagged a loaf of bread on the way out. Like so many others, Billy's family always needed food, and I could slip this to the boy in payment for his message service.

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Billy was named for his father, William, and it was that good man that let us into the family's humble home. There was only a single candle burning, and from what I could deduce in its feeble light the family was not in evidence at all.

"I've sent the tiddlers and the missus to her sisters, doc," William confirmed my guess with his first low words, "I didn't want them in the way of getting hurt."

"Of course not," I kept my voice just as quiet, "Where is she?"

"Through here," William muttered and led the way through, Billy taking up station at the front door as look out, "I managed to knock him out and tie the bloke up, but fer some reason she won't leave him. I offered to get her a cab or summat, but she wouldn't go without her escort. She's scared as all hell and she's shakin' with fever; there's some marks on her clothes that look bad too."

The back room was where the family slept, a bevy of mattresses and a brass bed that the parents and babies slept in. The woman was huddled at the end of it, staring at the supine form of her erstwhile escort. I spared a glance for the thin form before bending to examine her more fully in the dim light.

"Duchess Farwright," I gasped in surprise, and whirled to bend over the man on the floor. It was only a moment's work to discover his true identity and I untied Holmes at once.

The Duchess had been missing for the last three days, kidnapped on her way home from a friend's house, her carriage waylaid and driver and footman severely beaten to subdue them. Holmes had been called in at once, a fact widely reported in the papers, and from time to time, I had wondered how his case was progressing. That I should become involved in my former friends work once again was an irony that I had no time to contemplate.

"William, this is the Duchess Farwright, and Mr Sherlock Holmes," I murmured, "I assume he has rescued her from captivity and was then waylaid by you. We must get them out of here as quietly as possible."

Even as I spoke, I was examining her quickly. She was filthy and shaking with fever. Her skin was waxen and the marks on her clothes showed that she had been tied by the wrists and waist to a wooden chair with arms - probably a dining chair of some kind. Her hemline showed that she had walked or been pulled through water at some point, though there were deep puddles about at the moment due to the winter rains. She had lost weight over the last three days - I doubted she had been fed anything at all during her captivity. My thoughts were interrupted by my young apprentice.

"We don't have a cab waiting," Poole murmured, "I could go and find one."

"The hell," William replied, "Beg pardon, yer ladyship, no harm meant. A cab now would draw too much attention. They've already seen Billy go fetch you and my missus leave with the kids. Anyone watching will know something's going on and most people around here can be bought for a brass farthing."

"Then we will have to find another way. Either Poole and Billy go for the police as quickly as they can, or we find a way out of here that is as discreet as possible. Our best chance would be the police, but I understand there may be a problem with that?" I hinted around the subject delicately so as to avoid upsetting our host and risking Poole making yet another of his unfortunate comments. William was not above holding onto goods that had been acquired dishonestly from time to time, charging a 'storage fee' to the person who had liberated the goods. This fee was a vital supplement to the family income and jeopardising it would mean very real hardship to the family.

"Er, that is no longer an issue, Doc, I managed to get a babysitter," William replied, avoiding our eyes. I bit back a smile and nodded at Poole.

"Take the boy with you, he'll know where the nearest beat constable is," all the children in the area did, it was a vital skill for those that played the role of lookout, but more to the point young Billy would know where the nearest honest constable was. Even the police were not immune to bribery and corruption.

Poole looked as though he'd like to object, but William had him by the arm and out the door in moments. I took the opportunity to wrap the Duchess in the topmost blanket from the bed and then bent over Holmes.

"Sorry, Doc, I didn't mean to harm yer friend," William muttered from the doorway, "I'll have to stand watch now, are ye alright to stay with them?"

"Quite alright, William," I smiled and straightened from my examination. Holmes was already showing signs of rousing and I thought it best to be out of arms reach when he woke, at least until he was fully aware of his surroundings. There was nothing I could do for the Duchess at this time - she needed to be cleaned up and put to bed, something beyond my current abilities - and Holmes was rapidly coming back to himself.

William slipped out to the front room and I took my place on the bed, chafing the Duchess's hands lightly and talking soothingly to her. Her shivers did not abate, but she did manage to find my face with her eyes. She was in shock, but there was nothing to be done about it at the moment. Holmes sat up abruptly, sweeping the room with a keen gaze even as a hand came up to steady his head.

"Take it gently, Mr Holmes," I advised from my seat on the bed, "The Duchess is not harmed. William misunderstood your intentions towards her. Were you being closely pursued?"

"I… believe not," the uncertain reply was not comforting, though it could be as much because he was uncertain where their pursuers had been when William hit him, as the blow on the head. I nodded anyway and checked the Duchess was well wrapped.

"We're safe enough for the moment," I told him, "And there is help on the way."

"Who?" Holmes rose unsteadily to his feet, coming into the circle of candlelight more fully to glance over the shivering woman beside me before subjecting me to a keen glare.

"One of my colleagues and the eldest of the house are out for the peelers," I informed him, "The gentleman of the house is keeping watch for us."

"Poole? You brought him along? After the last disaster?" Holmes seemed astonished, though I accepted his knowledge of the inner workings of my practice as normal. Holmes would be in contact with Lestrade, and the Inspector was not one for secrets. There were days when I felt that the Yard knew more about my daily habits than I did, "Why have you not repudiated him?"

"He is inexperienced, but can be taught," I frowned, "Do not presume to tell me my job."

Really, the man was insufferable. He had made it clear that he placed no value upon my presence in his work and then dared to instruct me on how to proceed in my own profession. My professional relationships were not to be dictated by another, and Holmes' meddling would not be borne. Fortunately, he ceased his comments on that front, and I made an effort to regain my composure.

"Doc, here comes Billy and the peelers," a low voice called, and moments later I heard a carriage pull up outside the house. I peeled the blanket from the Duchess's shoulders and shrugged out of my greatcoat, putting it on her instead and supporting her from the room. We had her and Holmes ensconced in the carriage quickly, received by young Poole, and I joined them in the carriage as the driver whipped the horses up.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Watson's Woes**

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

0o0o0o0

Holmes did not wait to see the Duchess settled. He conferred with the Constable in the cab and was gone even as the front door closed behind us. The Duke sent for the family physician and I instructed the Duchess' maid in the immediate care that her mistress would need. Once the family doctor had arrived Poole and I would depart, our small role in the night's adventures over.

The family doctor arrived as I finished treating the abrasions on our patients' wrists and I left it to him to settle her and give a more detailed exam. One of the footmen had secured a cab for us, and we headed home to a much-delayed supper. I had made use of a nearby urchin to send a message to Baker Street, warning Mrs Hudson to watch Holmes carefully for a day or so, lest the knock to his head be more serious than I had first thought. Three years ago, such a note would have been unnecessary, as I would have been there to monitor the sleuth myself.

That, I thought, would be the end of the matter. I did not expect to hear from the Duke again, and the papers reported not only the return of the Duchess, but also the successful arrest of her kidnappers, along with records of other victims they had planned to take. According to the papers, those involved were all former employees of London's Peers and Lords, dismissed from service for one reason or another and determined to extract revenge through ransom.

Two days after the return of the Duchess, Holmes once again visited my house. However, this time he was seeking an audience with young Doctor Poole. Mrs Cooper was not impressed with the new visit, and Poole looked rather astonished to be summoned to the parlour to talk with the sleuth instead of myself. For my part, I used the opportunity to take a walk in the late afternoon sunshine, taking a turn around the nearby park and savouring the chance to walk in solitude. Even the most lively of professional discussion can become stale after a while, and Poole was a constant companion. It was the only way I could contrive to drill him in the 'patter' required for a competent bedside manner.

Upon returning to my home, I found Mrs Cooper once again hovering anxiously, awaiting my return. There was a quality to the air that suggested raised voices and anger, though things were quiet at the moment. Once again, she caught my arm in both hands, but this time she went further, tugging me down the corridor into her domain and shutting the kitchen door firmly.

"What on earth is the matter?" I asked, rather amused at this turn of events. Mrs Cooper was not one for dramatics, though she had quite the sly sense of humour.

"Mr Holmes and Dr Poole have had quite a … vigorous discussion," she replied, "In fact they've been all around the houses, and at the top of their lungs at several points. I thought it best to let the dust settle before you go in. They're both waiting for you."

"Did you gain any insight as to what it was they were discussing?" I phrased the question carefully, not wanting to accuse her of anything so vulgar and improper as eavesdropping, though if they were indeed discussing things loudly there was a fair chance that even the neighbours could answer _that_ question.

"I may have got the idea that they were discussing the correct … treatment of you, sir," Mrs Cooper was blushing faintly as she said this, and I raised an eyebrow in astonishment.

"The nerve of them!" I muttered, "Anyone would think that I was some helpless incompetent in need of constant direction."

Mrs Cooper patted my arm soothingly and I sighed, restraining my temper as best I could. It was not her fault that the two men currently occupying my front parlour could be overbearing and rather arrogant, nor was it her fault that her employer collected such odd acquaintances, worked strange hours, dealt with highly unpleasant business at the request of the police, and could never be certain that the most casual of arrangements could be kept.

"I'm lucky you haven't given notice, Mrs Cooper. You work in a madhouse. Since Mrs Watson's passing I'm afraid I haven't done as well by you as I should," I shook my head. Mary had made this house a home, and kept it running so effortlessly that I had been at a loss to take up her mantle. Mrs Cooper soon disabused me of any concerns I had about her continuing employ, using rather direct language. In the end, I had to set her to making up a tea tray to soothe her sensibilities, and promised that I would not speak such foolish nonsense again.

I took the tea tray into the front parlour myself, and would not have been surprised if the milk on the tray had curdled the moment I stepped into the room. The atmosphere was truly poisonous, and not because Holmes had been smoking.

"Gentlemen," I nodded to them both, "Some tea for you."

"See?" Poole snapped at Holmes, who leapt up and took the tray from me, putting it on a nearby table and ushering me to a chair. Poole poured a cup of tea and handed it to me, and all in all, I felt as if my doctors were trying to break a fatal prognosis to me.

"That will do," I said firmly when Poole appeared set to hover over me, "Help yourselves to tea and sit down the both of you. Mrs Cooper tells me that you've had a very vigorous discussion, and that you were waiting for my return."

They both sat down, ignoring the tea tray, fixing their gazes on me instead.

"Mr Poole appears to believe that I have treated you as an unpaid servant rather than a friend," there was a tone to Holmes' voice that sought reassurance, though the great detective would never have openly done so.

"Mr Holmes seems to think that I will get you killed, and should give up medicine," Poole retorted without glancing at the other man. I took a sip of my tea to buy some time, wondering what to say to them. Reassurances were obviously wanted, but how to offer them was beyond me.

"I see," I said at last, deciding to take the opportunity presented to me and putting my teacup aside, "And what precisely makes either of you think that I would be interested in arbitrating a dispute between you? Poole, I am your mentor, but I am not your keeper. Surely, you are capable of reflecting upon the calls we have made together and drawing your own conclusions about them? In addition, Mr Holmes, your presumption upon our past friendship does astonish me. It is not your place to vet my professional or personal affairs."

"Watson, Poole will get you killed with his arrogance!" Holmes said urgently, and I chuckled.

"You were not adverse to risking my life to your own ends once upon a time," I reminded him, and he blanched, much to my surprise. Poole shot him a triumphant look that I squashed with my next comment.

"You are correct that I risk my safety when taking Dr Poole to an active crime scene, however it is part of our agreement that he experience the full range of general practitioners activities, and I believe he has potential; once he overcomes several bad habits."

"He treats you like a servant," Poole muttered rebelliously, and I sighed, folding my hands. I was tempted to send the man to bed without supper; his behaviour was so childish.

"He treats me as an old friend, one that once shared a very intimate acquaintance with him," I corrected, and saw Holmes flinch a little in the corner of my eye. I shook my head and stood, deciding it would be better to remove myself from the argument. Things would not be resolved until they both relinquished their stubborn beliefs in their own righteousness and considered rationally the other side of the argument.

"I think gentlemen that I shall leave you to your discussion. I shall see you in time for rounds tomorrow Dr Poole," I gave the young man a very stern glance, "Do not be late. Good afternoon, Mr Holmes."

A visit to my club was in order, and I went via the kitchen to send Mrs Cooper out for the evening as well. Best she not be exposed to any more dramatics this evening.

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	9. Chapter 9

**Watson's Woes**

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

0o0o0o0

Poole was very quiet for the next few days. He applied himself to his studies with me one hundred percent, and even went to the extreme of offering to cancel his Sunday afternoon visits to the _mater familias_. I wouldn't hear of it, and insisted that the young chap go on his usual trip. It was not altogether an altruistic notion on my part, as I didn't like to miss my own regular Sunday visit. It was with some relief that I packed the reluctant young man off to his mother, and headed for my own appointment.

The days were getting cooler and so I took a blanket with me, and walked peacefully to the graveyard. Mary's grave was as immaculate as ever, though as I was visiting weekly that was no surprise. The small angel statue stood at the foot of the headstone, and the ivy I had planted only a few months ago had begun to entwine itself around it. I made a note to ensure it didn't completely overrun the statue, and settled the blanket on the nearby stone bench. I settled myself comfortably and began to talk to my wife about the events of the week, including my uncomfortable interview with Holmes and Poole.

I had moved on from the events of my household, and was telling Mary of the latest news from the Forresters when a foot scuffed the ground behind me and I turned to see Holmes standing a short distance from the bench, his head bare in the cold afternoon air. He looked deucedly uncomfortable standing there, the 'great brain' as I had once dubbed him struggling to remain above the sentiment of this time and place. That he was here at all meant more to me than any possible platitude or apology that he could offer, and something within my chest eased a relief that was almost visceral.

"Sit down Holmes, you're giving me a neck ache," I said after a moment and turned back around. The consulting detective did so, perching in awkward silence on the bench beside me. I collected several nervous glances and two false starts before I decided to offer him the lifeline he so desperately needed. I had always known that it would be for me to make the first move, and I did so now with a sense of peace. I had missed my friend, and was ready, _finally_, to admit him once more to my life.

"There is one thing that puzzles me in all of this, old chap," I had to contain a snort of amusement when he jumped in surprise at my words, keeping my eyes on Mary's little statue. She had been my strength and comfort in life, and her silent presence would buoy me now in this conversation.

"I deduced that you were working for Mycroft in the three years you spent abroad – who better than a dead man to engage in espionage, after all – and that it was your information that sent Mycroft from London to prevent an attempt on the Queen's life at the same time as … my loss of dear Mary…" my voice stumbled for a moment, it seemed that pain would always be sharp and fresh, "And I assume that Lestrade arresting Moran for the Adair murder removed the barrier that was keeping you from London. What I cannot fathom is why I was attacked in my garden in such a manner."

"You knew of the connection between Moran and Moriarty?" Holmes sounded surprised, and I nodded, giving him a wry smile. I was not the detective of our partnership, but even I could research and recall facts. Moran had been very virulent with his threats from the dock towards the end, something that had surprised me. At the time I had not known that Holmes had decieved me for so long, and the threats had not made sense. I had not taken precautions against those threats, which had led to my capture all those months ago, sparking Holmes' final return to London.

"I was the police surgeon assigned to the Adair murder. I was at the inquest, and gave evidence at the trial. When I realised that Adair had been killed by an air gun it stirred my memory. I went to Baker Street and consulted your commonplace books. The connection was there for anyone to see," I confirmed, and Holmes sighed. His hand clamped lightly onto my wrist, squeezing warmly.

"Moran was sentenced to be hung," he reminded me, "And he knew that I was alive. He too was at the Falls that day, and it was his presence that prevented me from going to you. He had a rifle, and I believe that he'd have killed you had I tried to call your name. He pursued me for three days across those mountains, until I finally lost him. Mycroft had use for me, and…"

I covered his hand with my own and he stumbled to a stop, something that was a rarity indeed. Holmes was never at a loss for words or explanations. Moran would have returned to England and watched for Holmes here. By the time he returned my own days had assumed some sort of routine, and for Holmes to contact me, or me to contact him would have been far too risky. Despite the pain that my grief had cost me, I would not have wanted relief at the cost of endangering Holmes.

"So the confirmation of his death sentence…" I led the conversation back to a much more recent past. Holmes nodded, squeezing my wrist once more.

"… made the Colonel determined that he would have his revenge upon us both. You were abducted, and if I had not reached you then Moran would have seen that as proof that I had died on foreign soil. You would have been killed when he was," his voice carried the faintest tinge of pain, and I chuckled.

"Well, that explains things. I do detest leaving a puzzle unsolved," I offered my friend a smile, and his eyes lit up, no doubt reading more into my statement than the words alone implied, as I had intended him to.

"It does make you the ideal partner in our Agency," there was still a slight hesitancy to the statement, one that I eradicated with my next words.

"I look forward to resuming the partnership."

0o0o0o0


	10. Chapter 10

**Watson's Woes**

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

0o0o0o0

Anyone at all familiar with my writings will know that my publicised account of Holmes return to England, entitled 'The Empty Room' is very different to the events recorded in this manuscript. As I believe I said at the beginning of this tale, my friend found my twisting of events to be a very odious lie, though he could hardly protest that I 'save face' by altering certain facts for the reading public at large. I had no wish to expose my foolish behaviour to the readers of _The Strand_, and Holmes had indeed deceived Moran with a wax works bust at one point in his hiatus.

I merely dovetailed several events and re-organised several dates, omitting certain facts and people from the public tale, and crediting others with events and actions that had not occurred precisely as I reported them. As an author, that is my privilege, and in this particular case, Holmes agreed wholeheartedly with my motives.

There are some elements of truth to 'The Empty Room' and a final event that I wish to include in this recount. It is in some way a confession to Holmes; forgive me old chap, I couldn't resist at the time, and when I saw how badly my reaction had shaken you I thought it best not to refer to it again.

After the conversation during my Sunday afternoon visit to dear Mary, Holmes once more began to call upon me with cases. My practice was busy as ever, and the demands of Scotland Yard didn't lessen, which meant I was not always available to attend to my friends work. Sometimes it was all I could do to play my old role of sounding board, and sometimes I accompanied my friend at the eleventh hour, only gaining true understanding of a case well after its denouement. Young Dr Poole made great strides in his bedside manner during that time, motivated partly by his 'vigorous discussion' with Holmes. After six months in practice with me, he was able to find a small practice of his own, closer to his mother's home. With him returned to his family home, my own house was once more rather empty and I began to spend more time at Baker Street.

Mrs Cooper offered her notice three months after Dr Poole left, to work in his own newly bought establishment. It seemed that he'd developed a sense of respect for her, and had recommended her to his fiancée, who promptly bought my housekeeper out from under me. I was pleased by this, to the surprise of my general acquaintance, as Mrs Cooper belonged in a family home, not a bachelor's house. Holmes was also pleased, as he saw it as yet another reason for me to return to my old address as a fellow lodger.

I was considering the sale of my genteel practice against the weight of my bills, because I had no intention of abandoning my poorer patients, and the genteel practice had gone some way to defray their frequently unpaid bills, when the maid I had engaged on a temporary business announced that there was a 'queer old bookseller' here to see me.

I recalled bumping into a bookseller on my rounds that morning, and picking up the books that I had knocked down accidentally to a snarl of anger on the old chap's part. I bade my maid to show him in, hoping that he wasn't going to attempt to extract payment from me for any damage the books had incurred. They hadn't been in pristine condition before I knocked them from his hands, and I didn't relish getting into an argument with him about the matter.

The stoop shouldered, white-haired man was duly shown in, and I ushered him to the chair opposite my desk with a smile and polite enquiry. I have to admit that I was a little bemused when he began the conversation with a heartfelt apology for his ill tempered snarl, which then segued into an inventory of what he was carrying, and an offer to fill the 'untidy gap' on the bookshelf behind my desk. I turned to look, and when I turned back there was Sherlock Holmes, his infernal disguise on his lap, beaming at me as of old.

This, I fear is where my own so-called 'pawky sense of humour' got the better of me. Holmes did so love to surprise and shock me with his disguises. I confess that the phrase 'turn about is fair play' crossed my mind as I jumped to my feet in surprise, mouthed his name in silence and then dramatically 'fainted' sliding to the floor in a heap. I fear I gave him quite a fright, for he almost shouted my name as he rounded the desk. It was all I could do to stay still as he loosened my collar and gave me brandy. I allowed him to help me to a seat, and promised that no harm had been done – merely that I was a little tired from a series of late nights, a little white lie that was based somewhat in truth.

Well, Holmes, I've confessed. A small price to pay, I think you'll agree, for setting the true events of your return down. I would have preferred to 'let sleeping dogs lie' as our American brothers are fond of saying. You never were one for letting a falsehood stand unless it served some sort of justice, and I grant that the events I depicted in 'The Empty Room' could be counted as a grievous lie. So here, old friend is the truth, as you requested.

Moreover, if I have offended you in any way, then you will have to forgive me.

END

Authors notes – this has been a while in the writing, and in fact was 'lost' on my hard drive for a while, which resulted in me forgetting precisely where it was going and how I wanted to end it. Based on a 'what if Watson didn't just forgive and forget in the first blush of realisation' in the Empty House by Conan Doyle: it was a good excuse for some angst and smarm, no?

Any character you recognise isn't mine. Any you don't recognise is. (Does that even make sense?)


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